


Auld Lang Syne

by kriari (kadielkrieger)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Hobrien, M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 22:59:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kadielkrieger/pseuds/kriari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyler’s extended family always spends the week of New Year’s on the slopes. Work has kept him away the past three years and Dylan nominates himself to pull Tyler out of his funk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Auld Lang Syne

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morganoconner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganoconner/gifts).



> So, a while back I asked for prompts on Tumblr. Writing every day keeps the muscles warm and sometimes taking a slight detour keeps me fresh for longer fic. Morganoconner requested Hobrien H/C with first kisses. I got carried away (as I tend to), but hopefully, this fits the bill.
> 
> Gratitude to [dizzzylu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzzylu/pseuds/dizzzylu) and [bluefjords](http://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_fjords/pseuds/blue_fjords) as always for lending their rockstar beta skills, any foibles that remain are my own damn fault.
> 
> _I have been known to[tumbl](http://kriari.tumblr.com) on occasion._
> 
> No real people were harmed in the writing of this fic.

Few things have the power and tenacity to get under Tyler's skin. He's an easygoing guy, after all, a trait he treasures almost as much as a healthy work ethic. Too often people mistake mellow for lazy or lazy for mellow, but if they ever elected a poster child to prove the twain don't necessarily meet, Tyler thinks he's probably in the running. Most of the time, he finds he's not only able, but content to service both aspects equally.

Today just happens to be the exception.

Family is important to him. And while Tyler gets that for some, blood ties aren't always the ones that bind, for him they do. Over the years, the Hoechlin clan has scattered, drifting to the far-flung corners of the country like unfettered dinghies. His parents were the ones to set off the chain reaction, and now there are aunts and cousins and grandparents littered from Poughkeepsie to Galveston and back, all in the name of progress and hope. California has been that for them, it gave him baseball and acting, and Tyler wishes he could express his gratitude in any way that makes sense. He tries, every day, just like he tries to keep the promise he made to his mother when he chose this life.

"Don't forget about us," she'd said. "When you're rich and famous. Remember where you came from."

She understands. They all do, Tyler tells himself, so really, who's problem is it?

For the third year in a row, he'll be the only no-show at Beartrap on New Year's Eve, an unfortunate trend that bothers him more than it probably does anyone else. There are cousins he hasn't seen in years and second cousins he's never met and they're all so understanding, Tyler hates it a little. He would love to have a week off in Salt Lake City. More than that, he could use the time to recharge, reconnect with his roots, maybe snowboard his brother into a couple of trees.

Of course, work also comes before pleasure, and no matter how he frames it, a sojourn to the mountains will never sound like a necessity. So he doesn't mention it. To anyone. ADR time in LA is hard to secure when it's unexpected, harder than a mall shoot at Christmas in Atlanta that trumped his trip last year, or the endless night time stunt sequence that killed his plans the year before. But _this_ is something that could wait, should wait, because if Posey hadn't come down with laryngitis, he'd have been the one stuck looping six episodes worth of exteriors today. The producers, understandably, want to make the most of the money they've already spent and since Tyler's vocal chords are still intact, he's taking the time instead.

"Dude, the hell are you doing here?" Suddenly, Dylan's just there, with his unassuming slouch and deceptively lanky limbs, jerking the earbuds out of his ears with extreme prejudice. The fact that Dylan managed to sneak up on him at all says something about the depth of Tyler's distraction. Current estimate, Defcon 3.

Tyler scrubs a hand through his hair, glances up at the shape of Dylan's silhouette against the too-bright fluorescents in the lobby. "Y'know," he mutters, smoothing a crease out of his warm-up pants. He's not pouting, really he's not. That's just how his face works sometimes. Derek Hale doesn't magic himself into being. "Posey can't talk. Here I am."

"Well, aren't you your own personal raincloud?" Dylan slides the backpack off his shoulder and frowns, or Tyler thinks he does, hard to tell in the glare, and even though he swore an oath to never be the douchebag wearing sunglasses inside, he aches to slide his shades on now. "Cheer up, Papa Wolf, you can't have much to do."

Dylan's right, of course. Thing is, Tyler doesn't want to be fixed. He wants to talk about it even less.

Despite his many admirable qualities, Dylan also happens to be unshakably stubborn when he wants to be. Now that he's under the, albeit correct, assumption there's a mood to be lifted, he'll do it and damn the consequences. Whatever else he chooses to be on any given day, Dylan is a caretaker. He employs alternative tactics, sure - listening and laughter rather than mothering - but the end result remains the same. Tyler admires that about him, usually. More so when those powers are used for good.

Wallowing is a perfectly valid life choice.

"Seriously, Ty. What's with the gloom-o-brow?" Dylan sighs and throws himself bodily at the chair opposite Tyler's and begins rooting through his bag. "They can’t hear expressions, you know."

"Nothing, man. It's nothing." Tyler can hear the lie, and if he can't convince himself he's really screwed.

Dylan squints in Tyler's direction as if he's assessing but, surprisingly, lets it slide without further comment, easing them into a subject change with more grace than Tyler thought Dylan possessed.

Tyler halfway listens to the tall tales of Dylan's Christmas vacation, the rampaging toddlers and yippy dogs that descended with his uncle from Butte. Every word makes him ache a little more, filled as they are with warmth and humor and Dylan's unique charm, and Tyler consoles himself with the knowledge that at least Dylan gets it. Family is clearly important to him, too, his smile brighter, the wave of his hands wider when he talks about them.

"So what about tonight?" Tyler asks, clearly unable to stop himself, because Dylan is also some kind of voodoo priest, a self-deprecating ball of enthusiasm and nerves that makes demands without meaning to.

"What about it?" Dylan says, the words carefully measured even with a smile quirking the corner of his lips.

"New Year's Eve in LA, man. Gotta have plans."

Something shifts in Dylan's face, an emotion so fleeting Tyler has no hope of pinning it down before it disappears into one of Dylan's crooked grins. Dylan opens his mouth to answer, but that too is lost when the studio door swings open to reveal a buxom sound tech with bubble gum colored hair and a clipboard. Maddy, he thinks. Last time the hair had been lavender.

"O'Brien?" Maddy says, gaze flicking between them. Dylan, of course, raises his hand and gives her a weird little wave. "You're up first," she adds, disappearing back through the doorway in a blur of glittering checkered leggings.

"Don't go anywhere," Dylan says and shoulders his pack again, scuttling off in the tech's wake without waiting for Tyler's answer one way or another.

Tyler watches the door drift closed, sealing him off, before he mutters, "That's kind of the problem."

**\---**

Three hours and seventeen minutes later, Dylan bursts back into the lobby, chattering about a killer mic kit he picked up the other day. Maddy moseys in his wake, clearly charmed by Dylan but trying to play it off. She winks at Tyler over the bend of Dylan’s back when he sets his bag down to rummage for the iPod he put away, and Tyler smiles even though it feels strange on his face, sideways and stiff.

“Well, that was a disaster,” Dylan announces, tone bright but throat hoarse thanks to the rigors of the booth. “I’m sure you’ll rock it though.” Dylan slaps him on the shoulder in passing, stumbling out of the way when Maddy waves Tyler back. "Good luck," Dylan says, his face perfectly, painfully, laughably gleeful.

For a second, Tyler thinks about asking him to do something tonight, anything, just so he doesn't have to go home alone, but Dylan is already tugging his phone free to dial.

Tyler grunts, trailing dutifully after Maddy, and does his best not to think about how empty the lobby will be when he’s done.

**\---**

The upside to playing a character who spends words wisely is that Tyler's ADR sessions take half the time of anybody elses. Circumstance helps, though. It might have been easier to find Derek's headspace today, the grief of missing his own family close enough to the surface he can sublimate and use it with much less effort.

Maddy smiles at him on his way out, wide and bright, but her lips are pulled tight at the corners and she's rushing him while trying to seem like she's not. Tyler gets it. Really.

It's New Year's Eve and everyone has places to be.

"You did good," she says, her hand warm between his shoulder blades. "Now, go drink your face off, kid."

In spite of himself, Tyler huffs a laugh, palming the back of his neck to give his hands something to do so they don't end up fisted against his thighs. "Thanks," he says, smiling politely as he reaches up to shove open the last door that lays between him and the lobby. "Happy New Year."

His phone sits like a stone in his pocket, and Tyler examines the scuffed linoleum between his shoes as he tugs it out, dreading the half hour he'll have to sit here and wait to be collected, maybe more than the additional forty-five it will take to get home, not to mention the endless hours between now and midnight.

God, he's that guy. Total Debbie Downer. Awesome.

The bell above the door jangles, and Tyler abandons his morose number-punching for a second to look.

"Dude, c'mon." Dylan rocks back on his heels, fingers tap-tapping at the door frame in a random reggae rhythm. "Car's outside." He looks like he's up to something, more so than usual, but Tyler's too grateful to examine it.

"You didn't have to wait for me," Tyler says, and he doesn't know why Dylan _did_ , but right now, he also doesn't care.

"Don't be stupid." Another crooked smile tugs itself into place, and Dylan reaches to slap the bell, shirt riding up to reveal a flash of pale skin before he backs out of the frame. "You sat there for three and a half hours while I butchered everything ever." Dylan's elbow shoots out, finding a home between Tyler's ribs, sharp and insistent. "Of course I waited," he says, and Tyler hums his response, sinking into the backseat of the town car on a sigh.

Dylan gives the driver his address first, and that's fine too. Riding with company is completely different than doing it alone.

"So are you gonna tell me, or do I have to beat it out of you?" Tyler knew the question would come eventually. From this distance, though, he can see the dark circles threatening under Dylan's eyes, and feels guilty for being so caught up in his own shit. He isn’t the only one who sacrificed a chunk of his holiday to the show.

"Doesn't matter," Tyler says and pokes at his phone a minute more before he slips it away. "Really."

"Seriously, man, it's me." Dylan shifts, turning until his knee presses against Tyler's thigh and the belt cinches up around his neck. "You do realize I'll keep asking until you spill, right? I'm an expert wheedler."

Tyler doesn't doubt. There are two ways this could go, and considering he doesn't have the energy to stonewall, Tyler chooses the easy one. "My entire family is holed up at a lodge in Salt Lake City."

"And that's bad because..."

"I'm not."

"Oh." Dylan studies him in a way that should be awkward, chewing on his lower lip like he doesn't know what to say to that, how to fix it, which is part of the reason Tyler didn't want to say anything. Especially to Dylan. "And by entire family you mean..."

"Everyone, Dyl. It’s a tradition. Cousins I haven't seen in like three years--"

"Because you always get roped into working."

Tyler shrugs and turns to look out the window, watches the buildings whiz by in the orange-gold light of dusk so he doesn't have to bear the weight of Dylan's pity.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"It's the job," Tyler says, and it's the truth. He doesn't have to like it, but there are all kinds of benefits to counterbalance the few times he gets the shit end of the stick. He has to remember that. Has to.

"Jesus Christ, dude. You realize you are not actually Derek Hale, right?" Dylan punches his shoulder until Tyler turns back. "You don't have to suffer in silence."

The car slows, swerving up to the curb in front of Dylan's building, and it saves Tyler the indignity of trying to find a way to answer. "So, I guess I'll see you Monday," Tyler says instead, shifting to put some space between them. Dylan hovers, haloed against the setting sun, clouds spread out beyond his shoulders and the open door.

"Come upstairs," Dylan says, scrubs a rough hand over his mouth and across his chin.

It's a nervous tic, a familiar one, and Tyler can feel Dylan winding up to flex all those wheedling muscles, the interior of the car stinks with it. Which is just stupid because Tyler doesn't really want to be alone anyway, making Dylan talk him into staying is a waste of time. Still, there's a balance to be maintained, so Tyler heaves a sigh when he reaches for the door handle and levers himself out onto the sidewalk. Dylan makes a silly, surprised noise and Tyler hears him scramble out of the car on his side, muttering his thanks to the driver. The town car eases away at their backs, melting into the flow of traffic streaming toward the city center for the night's festivities. Dylan forges on ahead, pack slung over his shoulder, his gait sure-footed and certain, but his hand jitters against his hip then his thigh. And if Tyler didn't already think he was up to something, he's sure now.

"I thought I'd have to convince you," Dylan tosses back over his shoulder as he punches his code in at the front door, his smile soft and a little wobbly at the edges.

Tyler couldn't say when this became about reassuring Dylan, but the urge is there, waiting to be acted upon. Instead of answering, Tyler digs up a smile he hopes will get the job done and does his best to swallow the persistent ache clawing in his chest.

He's been to Dylan's place a few times since he migrated to a nicer zip code and Posey moved in with his girl. Until this past fall, they'd spent so much time together in Atlanta, there were always other things to do when they got back to LA, other people to see. Or they were both tied up with projects.

Anyway, it's not the first time, but when Dylan shoves the key home and spills into his foyer, Tyler realizes just how long it's been.

"I'm not a dick," Tyler says, mostly to himself. Dylan, thankfully, pretends not to hear him.

Shoes toed off and backpack discarded in a closet by the door, Dylan breathes, shaking the stiffness out of his muscles and joints. As awkward as he claims to be, here Dylan's in his element, sure of himself and his space and Tyler's welcome in it. Out of respect for that space, Tyler discards his sneakers alongside Dylan’s before moving into the apartment proper.

The floors shine, knotty and oaken. Bright throw rugs in varied shapes and sizes pull the colors off the walls and down. All of it is sleek and modern, and way too sophisticated for the design to have been Dylan’s doing. Unless the kid really is good at everything. Tyler eyes his reflection in the faux vintage toaster that stands sentry on the island and wonders how this happened without him hearing about it. The drum kit crouching in the corner of the living room, he remembers, but the rest of the stuff looks new. New-ish.

"It's nice," he says, because it is and it's only polite to say so even if he's a bit confounded. "When did..."

"Colton had his place done right after he moved, and well - it needed to be done. Apparently." Dylan does that one-armed shrug of his, the one he uses when he can't quite wrap his head around how this is his life. How he can call designers now to decorate his apartment, to turn the place into a home, instead of making do with IKEA and milk crates.

Tyler recalls that, vaguely. Having been in the business for as long as he has, some things get lost along the way, and he doesn't know what to say to cut the silence, to make Dylan trust that he deserves this stuff just as much as any of them do.

His mom would know what to say.

"So, um, make yourself at home." Dylan leans back against one of the doors off the main living area. Tyler assumes it's his bedroom. "I'm just gonna, yeah," he mumbles, and then disappears through the door in question.

Tyler finds himself moving to comply without thinking about it, shuffling further into the living room to snoop. He’s always admired Dylan’s taste in music, because in spite of the age difference, they’re into a lot of the same things. And even when they’re not, seven times out of ten, Tyler will enjoy whatever weird band Dylan introduces him to enough to add at least one of the songs to his own extensive library. What he’s never had, is full access to Dylan’s collection without supervision.

Distantly, he hears Dylan talking. There’s no way to know who he’s talking to or what he’s saying with the door shut between them, but it doesn’t really matter. In all likelihood, Dylan’s calling his parents to tell them he won’t be coming over tonight. Tyler tries and fails to push down the swell of guilt that blooms in his gut, and if he actually was a dick, he’d take off before Dylan hung up.

“Do you want to listen to that?” Dylan asks, careful and genuinely curious. One of these days, probably when Tyler’s not paying attention, Dylan’s going to give him a heart attack. He’s standing close, and Tyler can feel the heat of him, the breath on the back of his neck. How it happened without Tyler noticing, he couldn’t say. Or he could, but won’t. Doing so would require admitting he’s totally comfortable having Dylan in his personal space. So comfortable, in fact, it doesn’t startle him to glance up and find him already there. That’s a truth Tyler’s not ready or willing to deal with right now. Not today.

So, in place of the freak out he could be having, Tyler shakes his head and says, “Nah,” tracing the letters of the band name, Weezer, before he slots the case back into place.

Dylan backs off when Tyler turns around, the hoodie and jeans replaced by a t-shirt and track pants Tyler recognizes, but Dylan’s smiling his tentative smile again, like he doesn’t know what to do with this person who’s wearing Tyler’s face. As a rule, Tyler doesn’t wallow, doesn’t mope. There are a thousand better uses for his energy and the fact is, sometimes you don’t get what you want. Today though...

“Sorry,” Tyler says, at a loss then adds, “I should go.” He doesn’t mean it, not really, because he can also be selfish if the situation calls for it.

“What? No.” Dylan’s hands do that thing again, and Tyler can tell he wants to grab, to make him stay, but for some reason he’s not. “Dude, you just got here.”

“And I’m going to be shit company tonight.”

“So,” Dylan says, and Tyler can’t figure out where the honest confusion comes from, as if Dylan is truly unable to imagine a world where he wouldn’t want to hang out with Tyler, regardless of mood.

“I refuse to ruin your New Year’s.”

Dylan rolls his eyes, and it’s so _him_ Tyler barks out a laugh. “You’re not, you won’t,” he says, finally reaching out to shove at Tyler, hot palms and fingers spread against his chest. “Just sit the fuck down, okay?”

And Tyler does, leather creaking, cushions sighing, he lets Dylan push him down and watches him round the coffee table, bare feet slapping against the hardwood. Dylan spends ten long seconds rifling through his media cabinet, fingertips stroking against the spines until he finds what he’s looking for and pulls it free.

“That’ll do, pig.” he mutters under his breath, and Tyler cringes, fearing the worst. It’s not that he hates _Babe_ or anything, he’s just not in the right mind, well, for anything, really. Fortunately for him, or Dylan, or both of them, Dylan knows him better than that, and when the big flat screen flicks on, the DVD menu it displays is _For Love of the Game_ , which Tyler adores, unreservedly, flaws and all. Because baseball is his one true love, and while he can’t relate to the specifics of a pursuit for the perfect game, the yearning for excellence played against the backdrop of a messy personal life speaks to something deep and hidden, something visceral he’s never been able to explain.

If he’s going to wallow, at least he can enjoy doing it.

Dylan flops next to him, knees drawn up and heels tucked in under the edge of the cushion.

“This okay?” he asks, still stupidly cautious. “We can watch something else if you don’t want--”

“It’s fine,” Tyler blurts out, sharper than he means to, and he’s ready to apologize but Dylan’s cheeks twitch with a there-and-gone smirk as he pushes play, music swelling from his surround sound system.

Their shoulders nudge together when Tyler kicks his feet up on the coffee table, and it feels like comfort, softening Tyler’s jagged, worn-through edges enough for him to stay. Costner’s not his favorite, too staid and expressive by turns, but Tyler can’t shake the loneliness that jumps off the screen, watching Billy wait for Jane and the hollow ache when she doesn’t show. Today of all days, the sentiment cuts too close, reminds him too much of places he should be but isn’t. And while he has no delusions about his family, that they’re whooping it up on the slopes and he’s the one here, mired in his longing, the truth doesn’t really help.

It turns him antsy and uncomfortable, puts an itch on the soles of his feet, because he wants to be somewhere he can fall apart if he needs to, if he wants to, and not have to explain why. Dylan leans on him harder, sensing somehow that Tyler’s not okay, that this is not working, and whatever comfort he found in the press of Dylan’s shoulder against his is gone when Jane tells Billy she’s leaving.

Tyler’s knees lock, inexplicably, when he stands, and he scrubs at the warm spot on his arm where he can still feel the prickle of Dylan’s warmth, his closeness. “Dyl,” he says, fighting every word with his tongue, to get it out instead of just leaving. “I appreciate the effort. You have no idea. I just don’t think I can--”

Dylan’s brows pull into a frown, his mouth making shapes without sound and Tyler hates himself for it.

“You can,” Dylan cuts in. “Okay? So sit down. We’ll watch something else.”

“That’s not what--”

His protests get sidelined in the space of seconds. Dylan’s intercom buzzes to life and he launches himself halfway across the room to answer.

“Don’t move,” Dylan says, pointing at the couch for emphasis.

If his luck holds, Dylan invited the entire cast over to witness Tyler’s halting descent into the land of the mopes and Holland’s outside with a bottle of bubbly to commemorate the occasion. Tyler slumps back into the grooves he cut in his cushion, picks at a string that’s unravelling at the hem of his t-shirt. Why Dylan won’t just let him go, he doesn’t know.

The door opens, but there aren’t any extra voices in the apartment, just the muffled sound of Dylan’s, the squeak of hinges as he pushes his way back into the apartment, the thump of the deadbolt sliding home, and the crinkle of plastic. On the next inhale, Tyler catches something new on the air, the scent of curry and peanuts and excruciatingly hot chiles mixing with duck fat and rice noodles. His stomach growls, churning and greedy, and he hikes himself up to peer over the crest of an overstuffed bolster.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Dylan clicks his tongue against his teeth and hums, rattling around in cabinets and drawers.The fridge opens, a foot taps, glass clinks, and Tyler didn’t sign up for being waited on.

“I can get...”

“If you leave that couch, so help me God, I will kick your ass.” Dylan huffs, and even with him twenty feet away, Tyler can visualize the expression that goes along with it, the warm, fond exasperation at people who _will not listen_ to his superior wisdom. For a kid barely scratching into his twenties, Dylan’s pretty sure of himself sometimes and Tyler allows him his ridiculousness. For now.

Tyler hears the hiss of bottles being opened, plural, and listens to the pad of Dylan’s footsteps rounding the end of the couch again. Bags dangle from his elbow, bags adorned with the generic yellow smiley face favored by the less flashy Asian and Mediterranean places, those out-of-the-way holes in the proverbial wall only a native would know. Between the soup spoons clutched in one hand and the bottles in the other, Dylan’s juggling and mostly succeeding, but Tyler leans up to rescue the beer, anyway.

“Thanks,” Dylan mutters, thumping the bags down atop the pile of mail on his coffee table. Divested of his burdens, he looks awkward and unsure, and the small smile he offers Tyler when he says, “So, um, bon appetit,” doesn’t reach his eyes. “I got a little of everything since you don’t always order the same shit like I do.”

“Smiling Elephant?” Tyler’s stomach gurgles again, and how the hell had he not realized how hungry he was? Doesn’t help that Dylan apparently ordered the entire menu from his favorite Thai place.

“Yeah.”

“But that’s on the other side of town.”

“Yeah.”

“How did you--?”

Dylan glares at him before the look softens and he starts tugging takeout containers free, flipping them open to survey the spoils. “It’s not that big a deal,” he says, breaking a pair of chopsticks apart and stealing his customary quart of pad thai. “I just paid a little extra for delivery. Hopefully it’s not cold.”

“What do I owe you?”

“Oh my God, you don’t. Dumbass.” Dylan plucks a sauce-coated noodle out of his box with his chopsticks and flings it at Tyler, snickering when it sticks to his t-shirt. “Eat.”

In spite of himself and the fucked up work situation keeping him from Salt Lake and his kin, Tyler smiles, and it may be the first one today he hasn’t forced. This is not the same, could never be the same, but here, with Dylan, it’s still good. He peels the noodle away from his shirt and sucks it down, revelling in the way Dylan’s grimace turns to grin when he scoops three separate containers into his lap to attack them.

“So. Good,” Tyler mumbles, picking between the pineapple in his kaeng phet pet yang to get the duck. With the food and the beer, Tyler feels the tension wrapped around his spine begin to unravel and fall away. Or maybe it’s Dylan and the scandalized face he makes when Tyler shoves a spoon at him and tells him he has to try the tom kha kai even though it looks like milk and meat. Whatever it is, Tyler’s glad he stayed.

Beer keeps appearing on the table between them, like magic, and Tyler has a mind to ask if Dylan enslaved a band of elves to do his bidding because at this point _nothing_ would surprise him. Eventually the containers of food vanish, and as much as he enjoyed them all, Tyler’s happy to see them go. He’s been grazing aimlessly for the last half hour, just because they’re there and he’s going to have to kill himself at the gym tomorrow to burn it and the beer off.

They watch the rest of the movie without incident, then another Tyler doesn’t really remember beyond the fact it leaves him dozing happily, caught in the place he goes when he’s buzzing with a bellyful of good food. He leans on Dylan, into Dylan, and doesn’t think twice about it. Lanky as he is, Dylan still has good shoulders and Tyler thinks he may say so, because the one propped against his cheek shakes and stills then shakes again when Tyler paws at it to keep it from moving.

“Thank you,” he says, staring absently at the curve of Dylan’s hand around his knee, the way the knobs of his knuckles flex and release. “I, really. Thanks.”

It’s only nine thirty, but Tyler’s so _tired_ he doesn’t care. The last thing he remembers before Dylan’s living room fades to black, is the gust of a sigh against his arm, the feel of fingers in his hair, and Dylan’s murmured, “Don’t mention it.”

Then there’s blissful silence and nothing.

\---

Dylan’s phone is ringing.

Dylan’s phone is ringing and the only light in the room is the spinning blue globe on the TV where the player has gone to sleep.

Dylan’s nose is buried behind Tyler’s ear, his hand curled loosely around Tyler’s elbow, and everything is hot.

Dylan’s phone is _still_ ringing.

“Dyl,” Tyler croaks, and fucking hell his throat is Sahara-dry right now. “Dyl,” he says again, louder. “Phone.”

Dylan stirs, coming to himself all at once and rearing back so fast his chin strikes skull, scrambling Tyler’s brain just that little bit extra he really didn’t need.

“Fuck, oh, fuck.” Dylan says, adds, “Sorry” and “Damn” as he reaches for his phone and swipes to answer.

Tyler’s eyes are not the best in low light since the Lasik, but he squints at the clock on the cable box blearily, weirdly relieved to find they haven’t missed the West coast ball drop in their gluttonous stupor. Dylan, for what it’s worth, is chattering again, fully awake and aware and running at ninety miles an hour already. Tyler pokes aimlessly at the buttons on his universal remote, getting things flipped over just as they start the five minute countdown. Ryan Seacrest will never be Dick Clark, no matter how hard he works, and Tyler has just enough time to think they should have champagne for this when Dylan thrusts the phone at him, bright-eyed and grinning.

“What?”

“Can you not just trust me?”

“Why would I do that?”

Dylan doesn’t even have the good grace to look offended, just rolls his eyes, again, and taps the speakerphone, then lets his cell fall on the coffee table with a clatter. There’s noise, joyful and chaotic, and Tyler pushes the mute button on the TV because to do anything else would just be rude.

A voice says Dylan’s name, but it’s not Dylan’s mother or his sister or Holland.

It’s Mom. Tyler’s mother.

Then his youngest brother, in the background. “Are we supposed to be talking yet?”

And his mother again, “Dylan went to get Tyler, so we can do the countdown. Go find your sister.”

Dylan nudges him then, waving his hands at the phone with a gesture that’s probably supposed to mean something, but Tyler can’t parse it. He’s too busy blinking away the sudden moisture in his eyes.

“Mom?” he says, finally, once he trusts his voice. “Hey, how are you guys?”

There’s another burst of joyful chaos, a chorus of voices, some he recognizes and some he doesn’t hear often enough to. A child whimpers and gets shushed. His sister calls him a loser for missing out again. From six hundred miles away, their love gets stuck in his throat, chokes him, fills him up in a way he never imagined it could. He hasn’t called before, either he was on set when one year lurched over into the next or he was afraid it would make things worse.

They take turns at the speaker, telling him how much they miss him, wishing he was there and Tyler laughs, clutching at the phone until he hears the television in the background counting down from ten. There’s a click and for a second Tyler thinks he lost them, but his mother’s voice drifts down the line again, warm as ever. She just breathes at him and they watch the ball drop together, sparkling confetti showering the streets of L.A. and Sacramento and Seattle.

“Happy New Year, baby,” she says, so strong and perfect, he wishes he could hug her.

“Happy New Year,” Tyler answers, grinning, cheeks aching. “Love you.”

“Love you, too,” she says. “See you soon.”

Tyler taps the phone, waking it up, suddenly very alive and reckless, says, “Yeah, Mom. See you soon,” and flicks a finger to end the call.

Somehow, Dylan crept away while they were talking. And distracted as he’d been, Tyler’s going to have to hit him up for ninja lessons some day soon. He’s grateful for the space, the courtesy, for Dylan and his stupid stubbornness, the fact he didn’t get abandoned even though he was being a little bitch tonight. Dylan’s leaning back against the island on his elbows wearing a doofy smile, his hair plastered flat on one side where his head was smashed against the couch. He looks rumpled and comfortable, and happy.

Like family. Only not.

Because he also looks edible - long and lean, his face carved into sharp angles by shadow.

“C’mere,” Tyler says, and stops just short of patting the couch beside him.

Dylan does, steps shuffling but steady, his track pants a whisper against the leather when he settles in again.

“I guess I made the right call?” Dylan says, lashes slung low across his cheeks then sweeping up, his eyes all pupil in the relative dark. He stares at Tyler too long, sucks his lower lip between his teeth and worries at it, not fitful or nervous, just habit.

And after the day he’s had there’s only so much Tyler can take. Because this thing, the thing with Dylan, has been coming to a head for a while now, slow and silent, and Tyler wants.

Dylan grunts when Tyler grabs him to gather him close, but he doesn’t resist. If anything Dylan leans for it, his hands shooting out to anchor themselves to Tyler, restless and roving. But Tyler, as he has told himself at least ten times tonight, is not a dick, so he noses his way along Dylan’s jaw instead of just taking, says, “If you don’t want this, tell me now,” because he can’t not.

A noise spills out on the air between them, low and animal, and Tyler has time to catch a breath before Dylan swings a leg over his, crushing their mouths together with a hunger and abandon that reeks of carefully-caged desire. This, he can work with, Dylan’s ass settled against his thighs, Dylan’s knees digging into his hips. It’s like nothing else, and he feels weightless, adrift, buoyed by joy and Dylan’s weird effervescence bubbling in his blood. Eventually, Tyler works through the shock enough to engage, palms the back of Dylan’s neck with one hand to keep him close, sliding the other beneath the tail of Dylan’s shirt to find skin. He tilts his head to get a better angle, delve deeper, lick into the slick, perfect warmth of Dylan’s mouth, and Dylan shudders against him as if he’s already undone.

Tyler chuckles into it, drawing back slowly to see if Dylan will chase the taste of him, the feel of him, and he does.

“Why haven’t we always been doing this?” Dylan asks, breathless and strung out. “We should always be doing this.” His hands wander, mapping the lines of Tyler’s neck, the dip between his collarbones, the ridiculously sensitive hollows behind his ears, gentle and eager. Tyler is pretty sure Dylan doesn’t know he’s doing it, which makes the exploration all the more endearing.

“People might look at me funny if I walked around in public with you attached to my face,” he says, thumbing at the bumps of Dylan’s spine just to see what will happen. Dylan’s eyelids droop, his back bowing, neck arching in a way that gives Tyler ideas. Ideas creeping towards plots. “Other than that, I’m in favor of this plan.”

Dylan wriggles, those slim hips rocking side-to-side like he has plans of his own. Other plans. Plans that may end in Tyler’s untimely death by dehydration. “Don’t think I’m easy,” he says and hooks his fingers in the V of Tyler’s collar. “You’re just _you_ , okay. And that’s, y’know, whatever.”

“You’re pretty awesome too, D.” It doesn’t begin to cover the bright, incomprehensible thing Tyler feels for Dylan, but when Dylan grins down at him, bending low to kiss him again, Tyler thinks for now, maybe, it’s enough.


End file.
